A/N: This story has been sitting in my head for a few days, along with the song "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars. Great song. This particular fic was inspired both directly by the song and by a FANTASTIC Harry Potter fan vid: .com/watch?v=DFBzZfxkWUg (just add Youtube). Seriously one of the greatest things I've ever seen. I cried. GO WATCH IT. NOW.

I'm staring at myself in the mirror when I wake up from my reverie and finally notice what I'm doing. That I am doing anything at all is something of a miracle. As the dark circles in my reflection attest, I haven't slept much lately. At all, really.

I peer more closely at my reflection. Sharp, high cheekbones, sharp nose – every feature is sharp. Dangerous. But the face in the mirror is pale and drawn, not angry, and exhaustion reveals itself in this boy's downcast, lifeless eyes. For half a second, I think I see a red flash in those eyes. Pupils slits, ragged. Snake-like.

Then the image is gone, and I'm left scarcely able to breathe. In my mind. It's all in mind. A hallucination, that's all. I've been having a lot of those lately. I look down at my hands. They're trembling. I place my right hand over my left in an attempt to stop the shaking. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

A high, cold voice echoes in my mind. "Do it, Draco. Or are you such a coward that you can't even kill an old, feeble man?" Then my mother's voice, pleading for me. "Shut up, Narcissa," the Dark Lord growls. He's distracted only for a moment, then he refocuses on me. He lifts his wand and I'm consumed with pain, agony, it's all I can think is pain…

I tear myself away from the memory and struggle to anchor myself in the present. It's difficult. More and more these days I find myself wondering what's real.

How did I get here? A year ago, I was a child. Just a child. Not that I'd have said so then. It's hard to imagine myself as that boy. I don't look much different – sicker, certainly; maybe a little older – yet I feel like an old man.

I've slumped to the floor. I'm leaning against the broken, useless cabinet that was to be my hope and salvation. Like me, it seems utterly incapable of meeting expectations.

I hear the awkward slap-shuffle of distinctive footsteps. Severus. The old bat. Come to lecture me again? I try to summon disgust, anger, anything. I can't do it. Can't feel. I'm numb to everything. An assassin can't give in to his emotions, after all. But mostly, I'm just so tired.

What have I become?